"I was just a boy when I learned that my family would soon be leaving my beloved homeland of Palestine to begin a new life in America. To the adults, it was a practical decision—one made in search of opportunity and a better future, away from the suffocating Israeli occupation & oppression. But to me, it felt as though my entire world was being torn away. How could I explain what Palestine meant to a child? It was not merely a place on a map. It was the hills that encircled our small village of Beit Hanina and served as my endless playground. It was the olive and fruit orchards where I wandered freely beneath the sun. It was the caves hidden among the rocky slopes, the handmade kites dancing in the wind, and the familiar scent of earth after the rain. It was home." Mike Odetalla

Mike Hanini Odetalla

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The Boy Who Tried to Stay

By Mike Odetalla

 

Fifty-seven years ago, I made one final, desperate attempt to hold on to the world I loved.

 

I was just a boy when I learned that my family would soon be leaving my beloved homeland of Palestine to begin a new life in America. To the adults, it was a practical decision—one made in search of opportunity and a better future, away from the suffocating Israeli occupation & oppression. But to me, it felt as though my entire world was being torn away.

 

How could I explain what Palestine meant to a child?

 

It was not merely a place on a map. It was the hills that encircled our small village of Beit Hanina and served as my endless playground. It was the olive and fruit orchards where I wandered freely beneath the sun. It was the caves hidden among the rocky slopes, the handmade kites dancing in the wind, and the familiar scent of earth after the rain.

 

It was home.

 

Unable to imagine life anywhere else, I did the only thing a heartbroken child could think to do: I ran away.

 

I sought refuge at the home of my beloved Aunt Jameela (Allah yerhamha), whose house rested on the side of the great hill overlooking our village. To me, it was a sanctuary. I believed that if I stayed there, hidden among the hills and within the loving embrace of my aunt, perhaps the inevitable could somehow be delayed—or even stopped altogether.

 

For one precious night, I allowed myself to believe that I had succeeded.

 

But childhood dreams are no match for the plans of adults.

 

The next day, to my profound disappointment, I was gently but firmly returned to my family. Three days later, I boarded an airplane and arrived in Detroit, Michigan.

 

In the span of a few hours, my world changed forever.

 

I went from olive groves and stone terraces to concrete and smokestacks. From the quiet rhythms of village life to the noise of traffic and crowded city streets. From a landscape shaped by generations of my ancestors to an unfamiliar urban jungle of steel and asphalt.

 

To a young boy, it felt like exile.

 

Yet even as I adapted to this new world, a part of me never left that hillside in Beit Hanina.

It remains there still—in the caves I explored, in the orchards where I played, and in the comforting presence of Aunt Jameela's home perched above the village. In my mind, I can still see that small boy clutching his hopes, convinced that if he hid long enough, he could somehow prevent the loss of everything he cherished.

 

He was wrong, of course.

 

But I have never stopped admiring his determination.

 

And perhaps that is why Palestine has never left me.

 

Because no matter how many miles separate us, no matter how many years pass, the heart remembers where it first learned to love.

 

And somewhere deep inside me, that little boy is still running up the hill, still seeking refuge in Aunt Jameela's home, and still believing that home is worth holding onto with all his might.

   [AS ALWAYS PLEASE GO TO THE LINK TO READ GOOD ARTICLES (or quotes or watch videos) IN FULL: HELP SHAPE ALGORITHMS (and conversations) THAT EMPOWER DECENCY, DIGNITY, JUSTICE & PEACE... and hopefully Palestine] 

&

Mike Hanini Odetalla

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Reflections on the wholesale Destruction in Gaza & Lebanon

 

5/27/26

 

Once, when I was a child, my late grandfather (ay) scolded me for disturbing a bird’s nest. 

 

He asked me, “How would you feel if someone came and destroyed your home?”

 

That lesson stayed with me my entire life.

 

A simple village farmer (fallah), with little formal education, understood something fundamental: compassion begins by placing yourself in the suffering of others.

 

And yet today, we witness Palestinian and Lebanese homes destroyed on a massive scale — entire neighborhoods reduced to rubble, families buried beneath concrete, children traumatized for life, and generations scarred forever.

 

I often wonder: where are the voices of the grandfathers who are supposed to teach mercy, restraint, and humanity? What lessons are being passed down to children when silence greets the destruction of other people’s homes and lives?

 

Because when children are taught to normalize cruelty, indifference, or collective punishment, the damage extends far beyond shattered buildings. It reaches and decays the soul.

 

The measure of our humanity is not in how we treat those who look like us, pray like us, or agree with us — but in whether we can recognize the pain of others as if it were our own. 

 

— Mike Odetalla 

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Mike Odetalla's newest book- buy a copy, enjoy, savor it... then pass it on to your local library or a child that you know and love  

Aunt Jameela's Bread. A Story of Food, Family, and Love..... A beautiful new book by Palestinian-American Mike Odetalla about childhood and baking bread in his homeland.

A beautiful new book by Palestinian-American Mike Odetalla about childhood, family, and homemade bread in his homeland 

My Sister Najah (AY) By Mike Odetalla of Beit Hanina, Palestine

Mike Hanini Odetalla

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My Sister Najah (AY)

By Mike Odetalla

 

As a small boy growing up in our village of Beit Hanina, Palestine, I was a mischievous child with an insatiable curiosity and an irrepressible desire to roam. The hills that encircled our village were my kingdom, and escaping the watchful eyes of my family became an art form that might well have made Harry Houdini proud.

 

I was the youngest of five children—two brothers and two sisters, all much older than I was. The sibling closest to me in age was my sister Najah, who was six years older. Because of that, and perhaps because she was the most patient, my mother often entrusted her with the daunting task of watching over me whenever she left the house.

 

My mother’s instructions were simple and direct: “Keep an eye on your brother and make sure he does not leave.”

 

Najah did her best, but I was determined.

 

I would wait patiently for the slightest distraction. Then, with my homemade slingshot clutched in one hand, I would slip outside, climb over the patio, leap onto the wall that separated our home from the neighbors’, and within moments I would be scaling the steep hill that rose behind our house.

 

Those hills were my paradise.

 

There, I flew homemade kites that danced against the blue Palestinian sky. I explored ancient caves that seemed filled with mystery and adventure. I stalked birds with my slingshot, imagining myself a great hunter. To a little boy, those hills were not merely part of the landscape—they were a vast and wondrous playground where I experienced some of the happiest moments of my childhood.

 

Eventually, my mother would return home and ask Najah the inevitable question.

“Did your brother give you any trouble?”

 

Unaware that I had vanished, Najah would answer confidently, “No, he is inside playing.”

 

But when my mother stepped into the house and found it empty, she knew immediately where I had gone.

 

Turning to my sister, she would scold her and issue a command she had repeated many times before:

 

“Go find your brother. And don’t hit him.”

 

Both Najah and I understood that the first part of the order would be obeyed. The second part was open to interpretation.

 

As Najah climbed the steep hill, her anger grew with every step. Not because she hated me, but because she knew she was the one who had gotten into trouble for my latest escape. Along the way, she would inevitably break off a thin switch from a nearby tree, preparing to administer justice.

 

At the top of the hill, she always knew exactly where to find me.

 

She would seize me by the ear, scold me fiercely, and swat me on the backside with the switch, paying little heed to our mother’s instructions.

 

The truth is, her punishment never hurt very much.

 

But I had learned a strategy of my own.

 

The moment she struck me, I would let out dramatic wails and sobs as though I were suffering unbearable agony. My exaggerated cries had the desired effect. Panic would spread across Najah’s face as she imagined what our mother would do if she believed that real harm had come to me.

 

In desperation, she would quickly begin negotiations.

 

“Please stop crying,” she would plead. “I will buy you a piece of Silvana chocolate if you promise not to tell Mother.”

 

Silvana chocolate was among the finest bribes a child could receive.

 

The tears would dry almost instantly.

 

We would then descend the hill together, our secret safely preserved between us, both of us knowing that the same adventure would likely be repeated again before long.

 

As the years passed, childhood gave way to adulthood. Life carried us to different places and eventually to different states. Yet distance did nothing to diminish the bond between us. In many ways, it strengthened it.

 

Whenever we were together, our conversations inevitably drifted back to those magical days in Palestine—to the hills of Beit Hanina, my daring escapes, and the cherished Silvana chocolates that sealed our conspiracies.

 

We laughed until tears filled our eyes.

 

What I did not fully appreciate as a child was that behind Najah’s scolding, her switch, and even her exasperation, there was a love as steadfast as the hills themselves. She protected me, worried about me, and carried the burden of responsibility placed upon her by our mother.

 

She was not merely my older sister.

 

She was my guardian, my accomplice, my confidante, and eventually my closest friend.

 

Ten years ago, my beloved sister Najah returned to her Creator.

 

With her passing, I lost far more than a sister.

 

I lost a treasured part of my childhood, the keeper of our shared memories, and one of the people who loved me most deeply in this world.

 

Yet whenever I close my eyes, I can still see her climbing that hill, a switch in one hand and determination in her stride, pretending to be angry while her heart overflowed with love.

 

And somewhere in that memory, I am once again a little boy in Beit Hanina—running free beneath the Palestinian sky, with my sister always finding her way to me.

 https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=10165969600031977&set=pcb.10165969600286977

Mike Hanini Odetalla with his beloved sister

 [AS ALWAYS PLEASE GO TO THE LINK TO READ GOOD ARTICLES (or quotes or watch videos) IN FULL: HELP SHAPE ALGORITHMS (and conversations) THAT EMPOWER DECENCY, DIGNITY, JUSTICE & PEACE... and hopefully Palestine] 

Ramadan Memories By Mike Odetalla #Palestine #Community #Respect #BeitHanina

Lifta - لفتا: One Of Many From Lifta's Homes Still Stand As A Truth Witness. Palestine Remembered

 Ramadan Memories

By Mike Odetalla

 

The holy month of Ramadan is once again upon us, and its fasting. Muslims will fast from sun-up till sun down, abstaining from food, water, and intimate relationships. 

 

Each year around this time, my memories of Ramadan in our small village of Beit Hanina, a suburb of Jerusalem which was still without electricity, whereby people carried lanterns to light their way in the darkness as they went first to the mosque and from there to visit friends and family: a special part of Ramadan, are once again rekindled. 

 

Beit Hanina had a drummer, charged with the pre-dawn task of awakening the village to sahoor, the light meal whose end marked the beginning of each day’s fast. Closing my eyes and thinking real hard, still brings back the sound of Beit Hanina’s drummer banging away, and the delightful memories of joining the other children, carrying our decorated fanoosia lanterns with candles burning brightly inside them, as we ran along behind the drummer, singing, laughing and shouting to help awaken the sleeping adults and start them on sahoor and their new day. How I admired the drummer; how I wanted his job and to share his fun. 

 

In Ramadan 1979, my first visit back to Palestine since the ’67 expulsion, my cousin and I, both 18 and living in the US, finally became the Ramadan drummers of Beit Hanina. The Israeli invasion of 1967 and the subsequent occupation made the drummers’ job very high risk and today they are scarce: Ramadan drummers were often stopped, even beaten, and some have been killed by the Israeli occupying army. 

 

By 1979, the village had not enjoyed a drummer in 5 years, so my cousin and I delighted in our job of walking through the village each morning banging away on large tin cans. It must have been a very humorous sight: the elderly were happy to hear us; the younger people thought we were a great joke and made fun of the ‘bored Americans’. But everyone agreed that we had renewed some “life” that had been lost as we broke through the dark still nights of Ramadan. For me, however briefly, I was transported back to a happy childhood whose memories had never left me for a moment.

I still remember sitting by the family’s transistor radio with my siblings listening to the special programs as we awaited the “cannon” to go off, signaling that it was time to break our fast. The “cannon” was a World War I era English relic and merely made a loud bang, which was all that it, was good for. 

 

Ever since my children were very small, I had regaled them with the many stories of my childhood in Palestine, enjoying the look of fascination on their faces as they implored me to tell them yet “another story of when you were young in Palestine”… 

 

This past summer, I took my children to visit the grave of my grandmother which is located on a hillside cemetery off of Salah Eddin Street in the Old City. The cemetery is actually located inside the boundaries of the Palestinian village of Lifta which was ethnically cleansed of its Palestinian inhabitants, which included my wife’s family, by the Zionists in 1948. Many people, including my grandmother and her family members are buried there, although now it is considered part of Jerusalem.

As we made our way through the cemetery gates and up the hill so that we could read Al-Fatiha, which is the opening verse of the Quran at her graveside, I noticed a an old rusty cannon sitting on the top of the hill, virtually buried beneath the overgrown weeds. I decided to head up the hill and take a closer look. Much to my surprise, the cannon was an exact copy of the very same cannon that I had remembered as a youth. I called my children up the hill and showed them the cannon, surmising that the cannon was used to alert the residents of Jerusalem when to break their fast before the city fell under Zionist control. 

 

During Ramadan, my mother would always invite friends and relatives to our home to break the fast with us. As Muslims, we are obligated to share breaking our fast with others, especially those less fortunate than us. It is considered a blessing to do so. It is something that we continue to do here in America as we invite friends and loved ones to share in our blessing on this Holy Month, the essence of which are a time of prayer, fasting, and charity. 

 

Some of the best memories that I carry with me are connected to the month of Ramadan in Palestine when I was a child. The closeness and feeling of “community” that I felt during those times is something that is almost beyond description. The sound of the drummer, the Muezzin call to prayer, the static emanating from the transistor radio, the “boom” of the cannon, the enticing aroma of the special foods that we only ate during Ramadan, the sight of families huddled together on a mat covered floor around the evening meals, illuminated by the flickering light of a kerosene lantern, enjoying their meals, as humble as it may have been, in the company of family and loved ones… 

 

These are my memories of Ramadan before the Israeli invasion and subsequent brutal and inhumane occupation which has destroyed many families and communities and is now in the process of causing further havoc as Israel continues to erect its Apartheid Walls, checkpoints, and roadblocks which have reduced many Palestinian villages and cities to nothing more than walled off ghettos and open air prisons. 

 

Unfortunately, these will constitute the next generation of Palestinian children’s memories and experiences… 

 

Mike Odetalla 2003-2105 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Palestinian village Nebi Samwail with its minaret framed in the arch, circa 1800s & an old engraving of Kolonia, and Wady [Wadi] Beit Hanina from the book Picturesque Palestine, Sinai, and Egypt

Circa late 1800s...The #Palestinian village Nebi Samwail with its minaret framed in the arch...This could be a rare old photo of one of the several villages that surround Nebi Samwail including Lifta, Al Jeeb, Beit Iksa, and of course Mike Hanini Odetella's ancestral village of Beit Hanina

Kolonia, and Wady [Wadi] Beit Hanina, favourite place of resort of the people of Jerusalem; it is famous for its well-kept vineyards and vegetable gardens from the book Picturesque Palestine, Sinai, and Egypt By Colonel Wilson, Charles William, Sir, 1836-1905. Published in New York by D. Appleton and Company in 1881 with engravings in steel and wood from original Drawings by Harry Fenn and J. D. Woodward Volume 1